MAKING UP FOR LOST TIME

PLOUGHING ON WOOLLY JUMPER

EBB AND FLOE

DELIGHTED to read that British woman Kay Longstaff was rescued by the Croatian Coast Guard after falling off a cruise ship. She spent some ten hours treading water in the Adriatic Sea before being plucked to safety.

I’m still not clear how you fall off a cruise ship, although at least 300 people have managed the feat since the year 2000, according to reports from the cruise industry.

Ms Longstaff was lucky, of course, that it was the Adriatic she fell into – temperatures there were survivable. Not so further north. I once went on a trip to Svalbard, well into the Arctic. There, if you take a tumble into the water, you won’t have much more than ten minutes to live.

So when we left the comfort of our mother ship to venture across the ocean on a rib, huge precautions were taken. Although the temperature was a comfortable two to three degrees, the wind was vicious.

But With three pairs of socks, five layers of pullovers and coat, two pairs of trousers, waterproof boots and Arctic fur hut, it could seem mild enough.

Before getting underway we had to have our ‘man overboard’ drill. I’m proud to say I was appointed Chief Pointer. If someone fell overboard, it was my sole job to keep pointing at the unfortunate person in the water. I even had an Assistant Pointer, in case I fell in while pointing. I’m delighted to report that our duties were redundant during the entire trip.

Maybe cruise ships should start employing this tactic.

A fellow journalist on the trip had just been given, for his birthday, an expensive watch. This was waterproof, shatter-poof and had a battery that would keep time for a thousand years. At least that’s what the accompanying leaflet said.

Into the bargain the watch was programmed to play digitally ‘Happy Birthday’ every time the owner’s birthday came round.

Sadly, just as my friend was boarding the mother ship from the rib, the watch got caught on the gangway railing, broke its strap, and sank slowly to the bottom of the Arctic Ocean.

Still its nice to think that fifty fathoms under the pack-ice of Svalbard, every September 9 the marine life is treated to a rendition of Happy Birthday To You.

By the way, if you’re up that way and fall in to the sea, you might look out for it.

W DANGEROUS WATERS

SOUTHWEST Airlines, the lowbudget US carrier on which many European low-cost airlines are modelled, has announced it will allow miniature horses on board. Starting next month dogs, cats and miniature horses will all be allowed on. But remember, a miniature horse can’t exceed 38ins.

There is the delicate consideration of ablutions, though it may not be as crucial as in days gone by. According to the New Scientist, draught horses used in former times on the islands of Ireland were encouraged to empty their bladders before making any journey by boat.

On a boat, of course, centre of gravity is crucial. Your average draught horse is capable of void- ing up to nine litres in a seemingly endless stream. Sounds like Saturday night in the loos at my local on the Cooley Peninsula.

But back to the islands. If a horse felt letting one go, and following up with a good micturation, fair enough. But if this were to happen on choppy waters, that amount of water sluicing about the bottom of the boat would seriously affect equilibrium.

There was one further reason for the precaution of persuading horses to spend a penny before departure. Horse’s urine and manure smell pretty rank, and it’s thought that at least one boating mishap was caused by passengers all rushing to one side of the boat quicker than you can say ‘Who dropped one?’

Recently I travelled via Ireland’s only cable car which sways precariously 100 feet above the waters of the Atlantic as it makes the 200-yard journey to Dursey Island. On the trip you have six minutes to strike up a conversation – if your travelling companions should prove to be two-legged. But they may not be, as the cable car is licensed to take humans, sheep and calves. Or a mixture. But there’s no guarantee they’ve been to the toilet – so watch where you put your feet. THE National Ploughing Championships get underway in Offaly this month. This is a huge date in the rural calendar — the Woodstock of livestock, the Tour de France of farming, the Last Night of the Proms of ploughing — all rolled into one. It’s impossible to exaggerate the significance of this agricultural festival — local politicians have to make an appearance if they want to keep their seats; councillors have to be seen buying their round; the wonder is that Pope Francis didn’t arrange his trip to Ireland to coincide with the event.

You’ll have guessed by now that the National Championships are now no longer just for ploughing or tractor enthusiasts. There’s a food village, a crafts fair, and exhibitions of related areas such as forestry. On the topic of forestry and woodcutting, last time I attended there was an enthralling pole-climbing championship, where lumbermen showed what they could do. A new take on climbing the greasy pole. I WAS drawn to the story this week about the teenage boy who was injured when a sheep fell on him while he (the boy) was walking on Slieve Bearnagh in the Mourne Mountains.

The teenager needed medical attention for potential injuries to his head, neck, back, abdomen and leg.

The sheep, which fell from a crag, is understood to have been uninjured.

Now, I’ve walked in the Mournes for many decades — I was brought up in Tollymore Forest which stretches into the Mournes.

Having said that, it is some ten years since I have climbed the highest peak; not through fear of falling sheep — more to do with inertia.

But I might make the journey one of these days, if only to check that the authorities are still keeping a vigilant eye on everybody.

Let me explain. I struggled up the peak of an autumn day.

Sweating like a galloping stallion, I reached the top of the sixth highest mountain in Ireland, the very pinnacle of the province of Ulster. The route is easy enough, should you wish to give it a go. You park your car at the bottom of the mountain, and head upwards for 2,786 feet.

Your starting off point is the seaside resort of Newcastle, one foot above sea level. So there’s still some 2,785 feet left to go. It takes about two hours to reach the summit, and they say the views across Dundrum Bay from the top are singularly sweet. Regrettably it became a fine soft day bucketing down during my ascent, and at the summit I could barely spot my hand in front of me. But I am able to bring you one fact from the roof of Ulster – do with it what you will.

At the very top of Slieve Donard there stands a small shelter which at one time belonged to Belfast Waterworks. And there on the wall is a sign which proclaims: ‘Trespassers will be prosecuted. By order.’

Could this be, I wondered at the time, the highest ‘Trespassers prosecuted’ sign in the entire English-speaking world? Is this the most arduous journey ever undertaken by some peak-capped jobsworth in order to flaunt his authority?

If anybody out there can, er, top this, I’d be very keen to hear from you.

Or am I missing something, and I had just climbed the most ironic peak in the world?

If you’ve been to the peak of Slieve Donard recently, this column would love to hear from you.